


And Then You

by DustyScarf



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Behavior, Badster, Child Abuse, Disregard for Personal Autonomy, Gen, Like It's Not Soul Sex Or Anything But There Are Serious Bad Touch Vibes?, Manipulative Behavior, Mind Rape, Non-consensual Soul Touching - Freeform, Sans Has Issues, chapter 2 warnings, implied medical torture, reset angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-14 13:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14770554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustyScarf/pseuds/DustyScarf
Summary: Sans has troubles, drinks to forget, and Papyrus has a bad time.





	1. Chapter 1

Okay. So, it seemed he was conscious and at least semi-aware. That was good. A nice, solid first step. Good job, Sans told himself. He managed to peel one eye socket open and form a hazy, flickering eye light. 

At the sudden stab of pain through his skull he shut the socket tight and groaned, turning his head away and mashing the bones of his face into whatever he was lying on. 

Grillbz really should know by now when to cut ‘em off, he thought, with a spark (heh) of irritation. It was easier to be annoyed at the bartender than dwell on what he’d been trying to drown out in the first place. Wasn’t gonna go there. Nope. Not this early in the morning. Or whatever time it was. 

It was morning, probably, if the light was anything to go by. He tried to focus on available non-visual feedback because _ow_. 

He hadn’t passed out in the snow, at least. Score one for Sans. It was warm, and he might even have been comfortable if not for the pounding ache inside his skull. Crackling static told him a nearby TV was on but not currently broadcasting and whatever he’d been sleeping on was definitely a _someone_ rather than a something, given that he could feel them breathing. 

“SANS?” they said. 

Well, shit. 

Sans didn’t remember making it home last night. Shit like this was why his brother hated Grillby’s. That and the grease. He’d even gone so far as to promise last time, hadn’t he? More than likely he was in for one hell of a lecture. Fair enough, Sans thought. He deserved it. 

He sighed, muttering that he was awake as he laboriously shifted his loose, sleep-heavy bones with a vague intention towards getting up. His left arm caught and he pulled at it with a grunt. His hand clenched around something soft and damp and Papyrus let out a choked, almost pained gasp. What the fuck. Sans scrambled off him so quickly he might as well have teleported. 

The sound his brother made as Sans yanked his arm free from where it was still lodged inside his ribcage was something Sans wasn’t going to grace with a description. He winced as a tearing sensation echoed through his own chest. 

The living room swam into view as Sans, disoriented, tried not to panic. 

His blurry eye lights found Papyrus, awkwardly wedged into the green cushions of their too-short couch and smiling up at him. It was a placating sort of expression, strained and insincere and the crying really wasn’t helping but it was clear that he was doing his best. 

His scarf was missing. After a brief glance over the rest of him that was about all Sans was willing to process. Papyrus always wore that thing. Sans could remember the day he’d dug the ragged scrap of red-orange fabric out of a pile of wet garbage in the Waterfall dump. 

He thought about how happy Papyrus had been with his find. After insisting it was a ‘hero’s cape’ he’d worn it home, stubbornly feigning ignorance of its swampy stink until Sans had wrestled it away and convinced him that such a fine ‘cape’ was surely in need of some impressive armor to go with it. And, just maybe, a quick trip through the wash. 

Well, he’d helped his brother build the ‘armor,’ but it was only a costume, after all. Below the absent scarf its chest plate hung half-open, partially unlatched. Sans could see shadowed hints of Papyrus’ lowermost false and floating ribs and faintly luminescent magic dripping down his spine and— 

“CAN I...Sans, Can You Pl-please let go?” 

Sans’ desperate hope that this wasn’t as bad as it looked withered. And though Papyrus didn’t say

—Sans, you’re hurting me—

Sans was acutely aware of him thinking it. The thing in his hand he’d been refusing to acknowledge pulsed, releasing a flood of distress all tangled up in unhappy bewilderment and, in the more physical sense, a trickle of warm fluid. Sans had to force himself to look at it. 

The soul shimmered with rivulets of raw magic, beading up from five puncture wounds and spilling down its curved surface. Still, it was translucent enough to provide a view of his own distal phalanges embedded within its delicate inner layers. Sans felt very ill and dimly wondered if it was possible to throw up without a stomach. Papyrus’ eye sockets scrunched shut. He whimpered, and Sans felt the sensation reflect back to him through the soul. 

_Nope._

It took several nauseating seconds for Sans to pry his fingers loose and break the connection between their magics. Papyrus seized the soul from him the moment he was free. 

Standing there, Sans watched Papyrus close off. His spine curled forward, his shoulders hunched in, protective. The faint sound of rattling bones betrayed a tremor as he cradled his soul to his chest. He’d turned away as if—and Sans thought his own soul might break—as if there was really anything to hide at this point. 

“*paps…” Sans’ voice was low and hopeless. “what—” 

Papyrus spoke up sharply. 

“YOU WERE SCARED,” he said, sounding almost defensive. “AND… CONFUSED. YOU KEPT SAYING THINGS LIKE ‘DON’T GO’ AND…” 

He glanced over his shoulder, not quite in Sans’ direction but apparently too close as his gaze quickly slid away. “…you thought I was going to die?”

Something faint stirred in Sans’ memory. Stumbling home, to a house he’d been sure would be cold and empty…

“…you have very strange nightmares, brother.” 

Just like that, everything crashed down on Sans with perfect clarity. A human, a child in a striped shirt had come out of the ruins. They’d attacked—no, they’d killed Papyrus. No one else. Just him. 

And he’d followed them after seeing…after seeing what they’d done. He wanted there to be some kind of reason. He couldn’t understand how out of every single monster in the entire underground _Papyrus_ could be the only one found to be unworthy of mercy. 

But in Waterfall, the human gave an impromptu concert with Shyren and made friends with the reclusive ghost who ran the snail farm. They let Woshuas wash them, did nothing but flex at the Aarons, and utterly failed to be killed by a vengeful Undyne. Things got a little fuzzy after that. 

He’d found himself in his usual seat at the bar in Grillby’s, surrounded by everyone the human had spared, and he’d given up trying to understand. 

When he’d made it home and found Papyrus, sitting in their living room watching an MTT rerun like none of it ever happened? It was indescribable. He was alive. The human hadn’t killed him. Not yet. Not…this time?

Papyrus had looked over as he closed the door, disappointment written clear across his face. 

“SANS, YOU MISSED DINNER. AGAIN. ANYWAY, IT’S IN THE FRIDGE IF YOU—”

His words cut off with a soft _oof_ as Sans collapsed on top of him. 

“*sorry. sorry, pap. i’m here now.” 

“SANS?” 

“*pap,” he replied, shaking and torn between crying and laughing. He clung tighter to his brother. Thank god he was alive. “they won’t get you. i won’t let ‘em, ok? gonn kill ‘em.” 

Papyrus had frowned harder at that, trying to push Sans away and giving the distinct impression that he’d be wrinkling his nose if he’d had one.

“I'M GOING TO IGNORE YOUR MURDERY RAMBLINGS, SANS. WHY DON’T YOU TRY SLEEPING IT OFF.” 

“IN BED,” he clarified, voice louder and even more irritated when Sans didn't move. “NOT ON ME.” 

“*nuh-uh.” 

Papyrus gave a dramatic sigh. 

He’d had the usual trouble falling asleep that night himself and it was obvious enough that he wasn’t going to get any help in the form of a bedtime story. He’d just relocate Sans to his own room later.

“FINE. HAVE IT YOUR WAY. SLEEP HERE.” 

Holding his brother, Papyrus tried for a comfortable enough semi-horizontal position on the couch. And Sans almost did drift off to sleep. It was nice and warm and with Papyrus' arms around him it felt like maybe everything was going to be okay. Paps gave the best hugs. He snuggled closer. Smelled like bones.

“IT’S ALL RIGHT,” Papyrus said, volume control broken as always but still somehow soothing, “I’VE GOT YOU.” 

Sans thought of something funny. He made a small, unsteady gesture. His eye briefly lit up in blue. 

“*nah bro, i got _you_.” 

He grinned, patting Papyrus on the chest to indicate his magic-bound soul as if he might possibly not have noticed. 

“*geddit?” he slurred, “cause yer, heh, blue now.” 

This was far from the first time that Papyrus regretted his lack of eyes and thus, the ability to roll them. 

“YES, IT IS QUITE THE JAPE. YOU CAN STOP NOW.” 

“*nope.”

“SANS,” 

“*i won’t,” he said, petulant. “you’ll jus leave me again…” 

“I AM NOT GOING TO LEAVE YOU, BROTHER!”

“*don’t lie to me, pap,” Sans muttered, unable to keep the resentment from his voice. He pushed himself halfway up, steadying against the solid chest piece of Papyrus’ battlebody. 

Pinned to the couch by blue magic and his brother’s slight body weight, Papyrus was annoyed but not afraid. Not like Sans knew he should be. They stared at each other. 

Papyrus didn’t understand. How could he? He hadn’t seen what Sans had, didn’t remember what had…what could? happen. But Sans knew there was one way to _make_ him understand. 

“*you don’t remember dad,” he said in an undertone. It was a rhetorical statement, but Papyrus answered anyway.

“WE HAD A DAD??”

Sans huffed out something that was almost a laugh. 

“*kinda.” 

Clumsy, he tried for the discreet fasteners on the side of the hand-made armor and missed, getting a handful of scarf instead. With a few insistent tugs it loosened and came undone. Papyrus’ brow ridge furrowed at that.

Sans dropped the scarf and after a few more fumbling attempts found and popped the latches he was after. His phalanges scraped against Papyrus’ spine as he reached inside.

“OW! SANS, STOP THAT. WHAT ARE YOU—?” 

Sans ignored him. His hand closed around Papyrus’ soul and drew it out.

He held it up and stared with a detached sort of awe. It was so bright, shining under the enveloping aura of his own blue magic. So strong, full of hope. This was Papyrus and he was going to die. This beautiful soul would shatter and there was nothing, _nothing_ Sans could do except—

The sharp tip of his thumb pierced the soul. Sans felt fear, confusion, rejection before his own emotions overpowered them.

His own devastation. Blame, despair, regret and anguish and the visions of the child who’d caused it and there was pain. Nothing but pain. It was too much.

Sans struggled to control himself, to tamp down his emotions. His attempt at a deep breath became a sob. He didn’t want to hurt Papyrus, that was the last thing he wanted. 

Sans took another, shuddering breath and tried for quiet, comforting thoughts and feelings and focused his intent. It’s okay. Calm down. You’re safe. I’ve got you. 

Despite the blue magic already holding him still, Sans felt the tension leaving Papyrus’ body as his will to fight against it slowly bled away. 

The dark eye sockets gazing up at him became soft and unfocused, completely open and receptive. He—

\---

Sans was reeling. 

God, did Papyrus even really understand what he’d done? If he said anything about this to, say, Undyne—oh god, Undyne was going to kill him.

“*pap,” he said, reaching out without thinking. “you can’t tell anybody. i—” 

Papyrus very subtly flinched under his hand, curling tighter around his soul. Sans let go, backing away and feeling like the worst kind of scum. He had done... _that_ and here he was, still looming over his brother and demanding things. Papyrus would be right to turn him in. 

In what Sans was going to pretend was out of his view, Papyrus carefully tucked his soul back up into his ribcage. He hadn’t healed it. Sans wondered if the marks he’d left would scar. He thought that he probably ought to do a ‘check’ to make sure Papyrus’ HP was okay but he dreaded seeing the little message that would pop up underneath the stats. He could only imagine it saying something like,

—Papyrus, your brother. He’ll never trust you again.— 

Soul replaced, Papyrus fastened his armor. He reached up to adjust his scarf but it wasn’t there and he froze. Sans’ eye lights darted around and he found it, crumpled up and discarded on the floor. 

With slow, obvious movements, Sans picked it up and came closer, holding it out as a sort of unvoiced apology. 

“*okay,” he said, mostly to himself when Papyrus didn’t move to take it. Or react, or do anything. “okay.” He went around in front of Papyrus and knelt. 

He took his brother’s hands and closed them around the scarf himself. Papyrus let him. Good, that was a good sign. He held Papyrus’ hands and looked up at him. 

He wasn’t crying anymore. That was good, though his lost, utterly miserable expression made Sans want to kill the person responsible. But it was him. He’d done that. He’d never forgive himself. 

“*pap,” he croaked, voice thick with choked-back tears of his own. “bro, please, they’d never let me see you again and i can’t—i can’t lose you.” 

Papyrus, tense and uncomfortable, refused to look at him and the awful thought crossed Sans’ mind of how easy it would be to just _make_ Papyrus agree to keep quiet. 

“*pap...”

“I won’t,” he said quietly.

“*okay,” Sans breathed a sigh of relief. “okay, good, that’s good,” 

“I won’t,” he repeated. “I won’t go. I won’t die. I won't leave you alone. I love you.”

The phrasing was oddly specific and somehow familiar but Sans could only feel overwhelming relief. Papyrus was the best monster in the whole of the underground. Sans rested his head on his own hands still holding Papyrus’, and knew that he truly did not deserve him. 

“*love you too pap.” 

Papyrus tugged slightly at his hands and Sans let go right away. He was too close, wasn’t he? He was crowding Pap and Pap probably didn’t want to be anywhere near him right now. He got up, bracing a hand on his own knee to stand.

“*you should, uh, probably clean up, bro.” He vaguely indicated Papyrus’ midsection, realized he was gesturing with his stained hand and blanched, shoving it into the pocket of his hoodie to hide it.

The only running water in the house was the kitchen sink. Papyrus glanced from the doorway between the rooms to Sans. He looked dubious and seemed to be struggling with something. 

“I won’t leave you,” he said. He sounded so serious, as though he really needed Sans to believe him.

Sans smiled. He always did, because his face was stuck like that, but he tried to project an air of encouragement into the expression. 

“*it’s fine. i’ll be right here.” 

Papyrus nodded and got up, heading for the kitchen. He paused at the threshold. 

“*pap?” 

“I won’t go. I won’t die. I won't leave you alone. I love you.” 

He said it like a mantra, with a serene, slightly glazed look. He was reciting the words but his smile was sincere. _Oh._ Sans felt cold ice down his spine. 

The way Papyrus had gone still and quiet the moment he finally put the soul back. His reluctance to leave Sans’ presence, how he kept repeating those words... _Sans’_ words. 

_…don’t go don’t die please don’t leave me alone i love you…_

Oh god, Sans thought. 

“*okay,” he said. 

Satisfied, Papyrus disappeared into the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

It didn’t matter, in general, if your soul was out in the open or not. Nothing bad was going to happen to it. The mere thought of such a thing would never even cross the average monster’s mind. Monsters were made of love and compassion and hope. They didn’t hurt each other. 

It wasn’t even a consideration for most, their souls safely incased within the flesh or fire or metal or what-have-you of their bodies unless deliberately summoned. It wasn’t exactly common, but having an exposed soul was just one odd trait out of many given the diversity of the monster species as a whole. 

Moldsmals, for example, all glopped around with perfectly visible souls inside their translucent jellied bodies. Skeletons’ lingered where one might expect, in place of a heart within an otherwise hollow ribcage. Gentle white soul-light suffused the forms of ghosts and other similarly ethereal monsters. 

Alphys’ design sketches for Mettaton EX put his soul on proud display in a glass case on his torso for fuck’s sake. The point is, no one was going to take advantage of another monster having an easily accessible soul. 

Almost no one. 

Pap had been too young to remember _him_. 

It was something ‘useful,’ Sans remembered, though in retrospect he understood that calling it a ‘vulnerability’ would be more correct. It had been one of the reasons _he’d_ chosen to use skeletons for his research. Convenience. 

He—the doctor—was a monster with an amorphous, dripping body of thick, inky slime and only a cracked mask for a face. His white hands were cold, articulated, and weren’t attached to his body in any way Sans could ever discern; attached by invisible structural magic or, perhaps, controlled through sheer force of will. 

That had been what Sans’d believed at the time, at least. He’d been very well acquainted with the doctor’s will. Even now he could still picture his soul in the doctor’s hands, its light shining through the holes in his palms. 

He’d understood—been _made_ to understand, to accept the doctor’s work as something necessary. Important. That he was merely an object, a tool whose only purpose and value lay in that use. He could accept that too, in theory, but it was so hard to be good and cooperative when so much of what the doctor did hurt so much. 

He was grateful, then, to receive commands that he didn’t have to try and choose to obey. The doctor’s mind and intent were, like his hands, cold. Undeniable. Inescapable.

**“b̶̢͘͘E̢͠ ̵̧̧̛q̶̕͢U͘͟͏!̸̴̛͡͡E̵̢̕t͟͡.̢͢ ̴҉b̵Ȩ̵̢ ͏͘c̶̸͠͞ &̶̕͟͜͡l͠m̷̵.̶̢͢͜ ̵c̢͢͟0̡̕͜-͘m̸͝P̵̨͠L̴y̴̷̢̨.̴͞”**

And he was. He did. It was better this way, easier with everything dulled and distant. After several repetitions the surface of his soul thinned and developed five little pock-marked indents to accommodate the procedure. He grew used to not having to feel or think much of anything at all.

Until one day, the doctor chose to present him with subject 2.

Don’t you recognize your own brother? he’d asked. Even in his half-aware state the little skeleton remained sensitive to the doctor’s tone. He registered dry amusement and a small amount of genuine curiosity.

Direct question. Response required. He shook his skull. No. The doctor seemed neither pleased nor displeased. Ah well, he’d said.

Subject 1 had stared, expressionless, at the gangling, grinning skeleton making grabby hands at him. The doctor allowed it to toddle over, whereupon it had gently pat him across the face and babbled in greeting. It was the first thing resembling an affectionate gesture that 1 had ever received. 

He couldn’t think of anything to say. 

The problem with his brother, he soon found, was just how much he did. Despite being unable to speak intelligibly the other skeleton had a loud, shrill voice and very much liked to use it. 1 didn’t mind the noise, honestly impressed that 2 could express such strong opinions on every little thing when he had so few of his own. But it annoyed the doctor and that, he knew, was dangerous.

2 didn’t know any better. He was bigger than 1, about a head taller when standing, but he was also newer. The doctor had outlined the general tenets of cognitive development when he’d caught 1 trying to teach him words. It was pointless this early, he’d said. Despite that the bodies he’d used for them were fully formed, the mind needed time.

The first time he had to watch the doctor administer commands to 2, he’d been throwing a tantrum over 1 didn’t even know what; shrieking and crying and making himself a nuisance while 1 quietly tried to shush him. The doctor had been at his desk trying to work. 1 glanced up, wary, when he slammed his pen down and pressed one disembodied hand against his forehead. 

A headache. 1 knew that was bad.

 **“b̢͝͠R͘!̵͘͜-̴n͏̨g̶̢͢ ̵̴̕͟ḩ̸̵!͟͞͏m̴̡͜͟ h̕͏#̨̛r̴͜͡E̛͜͝͠,̢͘͞”** the doctor had said, terse. Despite his misgivings 1 knew better than to disobey. He helped his sobbing brother up on long, shaky legs and led him over. 

The doctor stood. Rather, his form oozed up from the chair. He’d seized 2 by both arms and when harsh shaking did nothing to quiet him the doctor threw him down hard against the desk. As the back of 2’s skull smacked into the wooden surface 1 heard the familiar, sickening sound of cracking bone. Papers scattered.

Stunned into silence, 2 lay there blinking for one precarious moment before taking a deep breath. His wailing was even louder than before. The doctor sighed. 

**“v̵̴̛͢͟ ̨̨̨̧∃͘͠Ŗ̸̶̨y͏̡͜͟ ̵̨͝ ̢͢W̶∃̶͞Ļ̶͘͞L̷͘͡͠͏ ̧̡͢”**

He didn’t even bother undoing the ties securing 2’s thin, papery medical gown, just yanked it up to expose his ribcage. 1 stood there and watched his brother struggle.

2 didn’t— he couldn’t understand that he’d done anything wrong. This wasn’t— the procedure was second nature to 1 by now but somehow, seeing it done to 2 was…wrong. _Bad_. Something even worse than that he didn’t have words for but felt as a sharp pang in his soul. 

2 kicked, but his legs only sunk into the doctor’s viscous body and stuck. 

1 could tell the moment he touched the soul from a change in the tone of 2’s screaming. Even safe inside his chest 1’s soul felt smothered. The doctor’s irritation and hostility rolled off him in oppressive waves. 

Helpless, 1 stared up at his brother’s soul trapped in that cold, white hand. Brighter than his own, it still looked impossibly small and fragile and the doctor stabbed a blunt, nailless thumb right into the center of it. 

_**“$̸̸͡͝h̶̶̡͢U̵̢͘t͏͝ ͘̕͏̸͜u̶̢̢̕͘P̵,̸͘͡͡”**_ he’d snapped, not bothering to modulate the force of his intent. If the damned thing never made another sound again then _good_. There was silence. 

_Finally_ , he thought, putting its soul away. He directed subject 1, who wasn’t doing anything useful, to deal with 2 so he could return to his work. 

1 dragged his brother off the desk and back into the corner. He cradled as much of 2’s limp body as he could in his lap, gently rocked and murmured the few comforting words he knew. 

He glared at the doctor’s indifferent back, boney little hands clenched in fists. His eye flickered with weak sputters of blue and yellow magic. 2 had been dead-eyed and utterly silent for weeks afterwards. 

With many more HP to work with, things the doctor hadn’t been able to try on 1 for fear of dusting him were done to 2 and all 1 could do was watch and seethe and imagine pushing him into a dangerous piece of moving machinery at the first available opportunity. 

1 had been docile and complicit for so long that the doctor never even saw it coming. 

When the two of them were found, wandering a restricted section of the Core alone, there was a minor scandal. It was undeniable where they had come from; the last known skeleton monsters having been dusted in the war. The king himself confirmed two of the fallen humans’ remains missing and vowed to personally oversee the investigation into who had stolen them. 

1 answered every question the nice royal guard lady and the giant, fluffy, sad-eyed King had as best he could. Why not? He felt no remorse over killing the doctor if it meant his brother was safe. He drew pictures of the man in question when asked to. King Asgore found the figure somehow hauntingly familiar. It was strange. It felt as though he was forgetting something important… 

2’s drawings were only dark, angry scribbles.

While the marks on 1’s soul and both children’s bones confirmed that _someone_ had done terrible things to them, the investigation went nowhere. There was nothing to find. The ‘doctor,’ whoever he was, seemed to have vanished from the underground without a trace. 

The whole thing was deeply troubling for Asgore, but there was little he could do but try to ensure the children a better life going forwards. They were placed with a foster family in the capital and given names after the skeleton monster tradition.

Comic Sans and Papyrus discovered in the world outside the lab that the doctor had been an aberration and monsters were, in general, quite friendly and helpful and kind. They learned lots of things. 

For example, an object imbued with magic by one or more ‘parent’ monsters and formed a soul was a _monster_ , not a thing. As skeletons, Sans and his brother were in a fairly common subgroup of monsters. There were all sorts like them. There was Tsunderplane, a neighbor’s daughter who’d originally been a toy recovered from the dump in Waterfall. Or the Rock family in Snowdin, who were literally all rocks. 

Sans was angry for a long time but eventually decided that, like most things, it was pointless. ‘Dad’ was dead and gone and forgotten by everyone. Nothing he’d done mattered at all. They were fine.

They were free. 

\---

Sans stood by the couch, half-listening to the sound of running water in the kitchen and quietly tried to convince himself that everything was still fine. Paps would be fine. The commands would wear off sooner or later. They always had before. Papyrus would forgive him. And once the human came, well…

Papyrus wouldn’t remember this any more than he’d remembered dying, would he?


End file.
